


heaven forbid you end up alone [and don't know why]

by pagan_mint



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: Ajay needs everyone to stop being EXTRA, Break Up or Make Up, Drinking, Gen, Heavy Drinking, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sabal is a nasty drunk, Sabal is also a jealous bitch, and by everyone he means Sabal, dubious consent kissing, i don't know what happened, keep an eye out for game quotes, never smooch people without their permission kids, this was supposed to be a Fun Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6530701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagan_mint/pseuds/pagan_mint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“An apology is only as good as the actions that accompany it,” Sabal breathes. He’s close enough for the words to whisper across the line of Ajay’s chin and down the curve of his neck, leaving the scent of whatever he’s been drinking on his skin. “So, you say you’re sorry. Prove it.”</p><p>Ajay’s mind races to come up with a response. He has no idea what to do in this situation; Sabal has always had a hold on him that he can’t seem to break free of, but he knows that he should tread carefully here. The older man is angry and intoxicated, and that’s a dangerous combination in anyone. Still, despite a hundred other things he could have said to put an end to the encounter, only one word comes to mind.</p><p>“…How?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	heaven forbid you end up alone [and don't know why]

**Author's Note:**

> Title lyrics from "Heaven Forbid" by The Fray!

Ajay and Sabal don’t talk. Not anymore, not like they used to. Which isn’t to say that they ever really sat down and had a conversation, but at least Sabal treated him like a real person before. A hand on the shoulder, calling him _brother_ , looking at him with the most expressive eyes in Nepal. Ajay remembers being half in love before they even left De Pleur’s palace – but that was months ago now. Months that sped by in a flurry of activity before they slowed down drastically, everything crashing to a halt from the moment Sabal shoved Ajay into the stairs of Jalendu Temple.

Now, the days drag by, the weeks pulling themselves apart like someone slowly unsticking strips of Velcro. Everything Ajay does is done in the knowledge that maybe he didn’t do the right thing after all – maybe he shouldn’t have chosen Sabal, let Pagan leave, left the table instead of waiting patiently, come to Kyrat in the first place. Maybe then, things would be different.

Sabal talks _at_ him, now. What to do, where to go, who he is. “Be at the ceremony at Jalendu. You’re my second-in-command now, son of Mohan.” _Do you even remember my name_ , Ajay wants to snap, but he doesn’t. He is angry, and wants to be angrier, but he just can’t find it in himself to say _no_. Sabal is still Sabal, with all the charisma he originally possessed. More, even, now that he’s the self-proclaimed regent of Kyrat. So Ajay does what and goes where he’s told, because as much as he wants to deny it he still craves the older man’s attention, even if he hates himself a little more for it every day.

When the day of Sabal’s coronation arrives, Ajay does not attend. Not because he won’t, but because he can’t; on the same day, what remains of the Royal Army tries to orchestrate an uprising in the north, and Ajay has to go and quash it because after all _who else pulls the trigger around here_. By the time it’s over, the picturesque Kyrati landscape is spread with bodies and the moon is rising into the sky. Ajay sits on the steps of an abandoned temple and watches its glow creep across the ground, tinting the blood-stained grass a sickening shade of silver.

“Ajay,” says a man. He’s in the Golden Path; one of the few surviving members of the team Ajay brought with him. “You should go. You’ve done good work here. I’m sure the coronation party is still going; there will be plenty of food and drink. Rest, brother. I’ll take care of this.”

He gestures vaguely out at the battlefield, and Ajay has to suppress a wince at the realization that this is how it’s always been. He always creates a mess and leaves it for someone else to clean up. For a moment, he feels bad; then he shakes his head and stands up, dusting himself off and shouldering his sniper rifle. Thinking about it will destroy him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, finally responding to the man. “Thanks.”

“Be safe, brother,” the man says, and his voice holds genuine concern for Ajay’s well-being that the savior of Kyrat doesn't feel like he deserves. With a wave, Ajay mounts a nearby ATV and guns the engine, leaving the man and the bodies and the blood behind.

**

The coronation was held at Jalendu Temple, but the party is at Ratu Gadhi. Nowadays, Yuma’s old fortress serves as a headquarters and gathering place for the Golden Path; its central location makes it fairly heavily trafficked, but in far more of a recreational capacity as opposed to the more official King’s Bridge fort. Ajay can hear shouting and the thumping of a bass track over the roar of his ATV’s engine even before he reaches Ratu Gadhi; parking the vehicle, he walks up the path and into the fort.

There are people everywhere, mostly drunk and a few working hard on getting that way. Most are clustered around burnbarrels, the flames lighting their faces with an almost eerie glow; some are sitting or lying on the ground, too far gone to even remove themselves to a bed or even a corner. A few members of the Path have retained enough coherency to dance, albeit some more soberly than others; Ajay navigates around them, shaking his head in response to invitations to join, and asks a guard where Sabal is.

“Actually, I don’t think anyone’s seen him since the coronation,” the woman tells him. “He just sort of disappeared. Not sure where he got off to.”

“That’s weird,” Ajay murmurs.

“I know, yarr? What kind of king skips their own coronation party? Way to be approachable to your people.”

Ajay makes a sound of agreement and wanders off, trying to think of what to do next. His plan was to find Sabal and report to him; realizing this, he lets out a quiet laugh. _I put reporting to Sabal over my own comfort and needs_. Taking a moment to listen to his body, he decides to put off finding the newly appointed regent for the time being and do what he was told to do earlier in the evening – eat, drink, and rest.

Being the one who had liberated Yuma’s fortress in the first place, Ajay knows that what can be seen of Ratu Gadhi is not all there is to it. Walking through the celebrating Path members, he finally makes it out of the main courtyard, though not without being pressured to accept at least one can of cheap Kyrati beer. Absentmindedly cracking it open, he takes a sip, making his way through the woods for a short time before turning into an opening on the face of the cliff that flanks the fortress.

The cave is cool, if not very quiet. Still, at least the sounds of the shouting and music are muffled, coming through the stone walls as more of a distant, booming vibration instead of an incessant cacophony of noise. Ajay smiles, taking another sip of beer as he uses his free hand to fish for the flashlight that’s usually hooked onto his belt somewhere.

Just as he touches the flashlight, he pauses, realizing he doesn’t need it. The lanterns hanging from the ceiling of the cave are lit – he’s no longer the only person who knows about this extension to the fortress. Making a disgruntled noise, Ajay turns to go; with the amount of drunken rowdiness happening in the immediately vicinity, he’s sure he would rather not see whoever is in the cave and what they’re doing.

“Leaving so soon, brother?”

Startled, Ajay whips back around – the voice of the speaker belongs to the last person he expects to be there.

“Sabal? What are you doing here?” he asks. Walking further into the cave, he enters the larger and better-lit section that has been hacked and carved away into a combined living and storage space. Crates line the walls, exposed and bare in some places and in others draped with tapestries and bright sheets of fabric. Sabal is seated at a makeshift table-and-chair setup near the middle of the room, a glass in his hand and a bottle of expensive-looking alcohol on the crates he is using as a table.

“I’m celebrating,” the older man says. There’s a very slight slur to his voice, highlighted by the way he swirls his drink in his hand as he speaks. “Can’t you tell?”

“Not much of a celebration,” Ajay says cautiously. The room smells like lingering smoke and exotic perfume, with an underlying tang that could be either blood or alcohol. Maybe both. “Drinking alone is usually something people do when they’re upset.”

“Maybe I am upset,” Sabal responds. Ajay laughs nervously.

“Why would you be upset? You were crowned the king of Kyrat today. That seems like - ”

“Things are not always what they seem,” Sabal bites back, snapping Ajay into silence. “For instance, I’m certain you have a perfectly reasonable excuse for not being by my side at my coronation today. However, it _seemed_ like you simply chose not to be there in a deliberately calculated show of disloyalty.”

Appalled, Ajay takes a step forward. “Sabal, that’s not – ”

“It doesn’t matter,” the regent spits. Gulping down the rest of his drink, he slams the glass down onto the table with enough force that Ajay is surprised it doesn't shatter. “Intentions are always overshadowed by appearances, Ajay. Like how today, it appeared as though you – my _second-in-command_ – chose not to attend my coronation in a deliberate refusal to recognize my ascent into a position of power.”

Ajay doesn’t respond, too stunned by the accusation to even think about formulating words. Sabal is clearly both furious and highly intoxicated – a dangerous combination for anyone, but perhaps even more so in the case of the recently crowned regent of Kyrat. Recognizing that this is not an argument he can win, the younger man makes a noncommittal noise and starts to back away.

“Where are you going?” Sabal snaps immediately. Startled, Ajay takes a final jerky step back, colliding with part of the cave wall that’s not lined by boxes. “Was I too close to the truth? Do you not think me fit to lead my own country, that I’ve been fighting to bring to this point for years?”

Ajay opens his mouth, starts to protest, but his tiny “No” is swallowed by the sound of wood scraping across stone as Sabal launches to his feet, shoving the crate he was sitting on back across the floor.

“Or perhaps you think it should have been you on the throne,” the older man spits. Every word is full of venomous fury, tinged with a hatred that Ajay has only seen hints of before but is now experiencing with an ugly ferocity. “Was that it, son of Mohan? Do you have a sudden interest in fulfilling your father’s legacy? Did you not show your face by my side today because you knew your absence would be noted? Don’t imagine that I haven’t heard the whispers.”

“What whispers?” Ajay demands, feeling defensive. Sabal picks up the bottle of liquor and fills the glass, letting out a short, derisive snicker.

“Less whispers and more of murmurs, after what you pulled today,” he says. “To hear them talk, you should be the one seated on the throne, rather than me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Ajay lies. Because although it was Sabal who sunk years of his life into liberating Kyrat, it was Ajay who finally got the job done, and it was Ajay who was the rightful heir to the country’s throne – at least, according to the previous king. “Sabal, I don’t want to be king.” _I just want to go home_. “And I would have been there today, really, but – ” He falters, realizing the explanation will sound like an excuse, and inhales deeply. “I would have been there if I could. I’m sorry.”

Sabal gives him a _look_ , a gaze even more piercing and soul-searching than usual. Ajay is pinned by it like a deer trapped in the headlights of a car, unable to move or even look away. He doesn’t realize he’s even been holding his breath until the regent drops his gaze and Ajay finally exhales.

“Are you?” Sabal asks quietly – almost too much so, his words barely audible past the low, thudding bass of the muffled music outside. He takes hold of the nearly overfilled glass with the tips of his fingers and slowly swirls it on its base, watching the alcohol spill out over the sides and soak into the fabric covering the crate-table.

“A-am I… what?” Ajay asks, confused. “Of – of course I’m sorry, Sabal. I never would have missed your coronation if – ”

“Then prove it.” Sabal picks up the glass and turns to face him, and Ajay doesn’t look into his eyes this time because it’s enough to feel them burning a hole through him. Instead he directs his gaze to Sabal’s feet, watching the dusty military boots and the way the candlelight flickers off them, dancing on the grommets for the laces.

“What do you mean?” he murmurs, uncertain that he wants an answer. That’s when the boots start moving, crossing the floor in a few powerful strides before they’re too close for Ajay to look directly at them without craning his neck at an uncomfortable angle. It doesn’t matter, anyway; fingers wet with alcohol grip his chin and force him to look up, into the very eyes he’s been avoiding. This close, he can see that they’re slightly glassy, but still as keen as ever, smoldering with intoxication and another emotion he can’t quite name.

“An apology is only as good as the actions that accompany it,” Sabal breathes. He’s close enough for the words to whisper across the line of Ajay’s chin and down the curve of his neck, leaving the scent of whatever he’s been drinking on his skin. “So, you say you’re sorry. Prove it.”

Ajay’s mind races to come up with a response. He has no idea what to do in this situation; Sabal has always had a hold on him that he can’t seem to break free of, but he knows that he should tread carefully here. The older man is angry and intoxicated, and that’s a dangerous combination in anyone. Still, despite a hundred other things he could have said to put an end to the encounter – _no, stop, you don’t know what you’re saying, goodnight_ – only one word comes to mind.

“…How?”

Sabal smiles, white teeth flashing bright in the dim lighting. “Drink with me.”

He’s brought the glass with him, and now he raises it to his lips, taking a long gulp. Ajay watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, and is abruptly aware of how dry his own mouth has become.

“Uh,” he manages articulately. “Okay. But there’s only one  - ”

The rest of his sentence is lost in a strangled noise as Sabal lunges forward and up, pressing his lips to Ajay’s in a kiss that burns with the heat of his skin and the unexpected contact. Startled, Ajay’s immediate reaction is to retreat, his head snapping back and crashing into the cave wall with enough force to make the world flash white and stabbing pain ratchet through his skull. Sabal pays this no heed, using one hand to frame the younger man against the wall and cut off his escape while his other hand cards through thick black hair. Dragging his fingers down the side of Ajay’s face, Sabal breaks away and ghosts the pad of his thumb across Ajay’s lips. They’re already beginning to swell from the kiss, the difference noticeable to the son of Mohan even through the haze of pain his world has become.

“You bruise easily,” Sabal murmurs. “I heard that your father did the same.”

“Wha – ” Ajay starts, but that’s as far as he gets before Sabal cuts him off again – this time by hooking two fingers in his mouth. They taste like salt and alcohol and a little bit like blood, but almost as soon as Ajay has registered each individual taste they’re washed out by Sabal pouring the contents of the glass into his mouth.

“Drink,” the regent growls. Because he can’t disobey Sabal, because he never has (except when it comes to killing) and likely never will, Ajay does it. He does it even though it’s too much alcohol, even though it burns his throat and it’s hard to swallow with someone else’s fingers in his mouth and it’s pouring out onto the floor.

“Don’t be wasteful.” The fingers leave his mouth and relocate to his chin, pressing up and his lips together, waiting for him to finish swallowing. Some of it goes down the wrong pipe and Ajay tries to cough, but Sabal won’t let him open his mouth and so instead he chokes, his body heaving in an attempt to expunge the liquid from his lungs. The regent watches him for a long moment with an almost clinical detachment before finally stepping back and allowing the younger man to recover.

Doubling over, Ajay gasps for air, his mind a blur of pain and confusion. Pushing himself away from the wall, he straightens up enough to stagger a few steps forward, not really conscious of where he’s going or what he’s doing.

“Sabal,” he rasps, “what the f – ” He interrupts himself with a cough, unable to speak just yet.

“What’s wrong, brother?” Sabal asks him from somewhere overhead. The pet name sounds wrong now, twisting its way out of his mouth like a taunt. “You said you were sorry, yet you don’t seem very apologetic.”

“I already apologized!” Ajay blurts. “This – this _isn’t_ apologizing. I don’t know what you _want_! I don’t think you do either, you’re drunk and you’re not thinking clearly - ”

Strong fingers curl into the front of his jacket and yank upwards, launching him to his feet at a rate that he can’t handle with his recent injury. Overwhelmed by a sense of vertigo, he feels his legs give out underneath him; before he can fall all the way to the floor, an arm corded with lean muscle catches and pulls him forward into a chest that’s the consistency of a brick wall.

“Actually,” Sabal mumbles, his lips whispering against the rim of Ajay’s ear, “I’ve never thought more clearly in my life.” He runs his fingers through Ajay’s hair again and doesn’t seem to notice when his fingers come back sticky with blood. “I just want to know that you’re _really_ sorry, Ajay. You have to convince me. I don’t believe you yet.”

The son of Mohan tries to push away from the older man; Sabal’s grip tightens on him almost too briefly for it to be noticeable, and then drops away, leaving Ajay to stagger a few steps away and regain his bearings.

“I don’t have to convince you of anything,” he says, the words scraping across his throat. “You’re not _celebrating_ at all, you’re throwing a _tantrum_. You’re drunk and you’re angry and that’s a shitty combination – ”

“Watch your tongue,” Sabal says, and his tone is the particularly self-satisfied kind of haughty that Ajay’s heard once before. _Did she give you that sob story about being the first woman in the Golden Path?_ “You are speaking to your king.”

“Really? I thought I was speaking to my friend,” Ajay spits back. There’s silence for a long moment between them; somewhere outside, someone turns up the music, and the bass is slower and deeper and vibrates in time to the throbbing in the back of Ajay’s head.

“Is that what we are?” Sabal asks quietly. His eyes glitter in the lantern light, making it impossible to tell what emotion he’s feeling. “Friends?”

This is not happening. “You don’t get to say crap like that,” Ajay snaps. “A kiss when you’re drunk doesn’t mean shit, especially if you use it to manipulate me five seconds later. If you have feelings for me, you can tell me about them when you’re sober.” A thought occurs to him then, one that he’s been trying to avoid – but now seems like as good a time as any to bring it up. “If they even are feelings for me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sabal demands.

“You know what it means,” Ajay says. Nausea begins to climb its way towards the top of his throat, and not just because of his recent head trauma. _Son of Mohan. Brother. He would be proud_. “I don’t think you’ve ever looked at me and actually seen who I am.”

“You’re not making sense,” says the older man, and maybe he isn’t. But the more Ajay thinks about it, the more obvious it is.

Abruptly, the will to fight and all of his anger desert him. He realizes that he’s still holding his can of cheap beer, and also that he doesn’t want it any more. Walking over to the makeshift table, he sets it down, then turns back to Sabal.

“I’m sorry,” he says for the third time, but this time it’s unclear what he’s sorry for. Not attending the coronation; letting this conversation happen; being the rightful king of Kyrat; the fact that he isn’t his father. “I’m gonna go. I hope you feel better in the morning.”

Sabal waits until Ajay is past him to speak. “Stay.”

He can’t say no to Sabal, and he never will. But right now, Sabal isn’t himself, and to treat him as if he were would be disrespectful to both of them.

As Ajay emerges from the cave, over the sounds of wildlife and the sudden clarity of the music, he hears the sound of glass shattering against the ground.

**

Sabal doesn’t remember it, in the morning. He doesn’t remember it two weeks later, when he calls Ajay to meet with him and produces two cans of beer.

“Drink with me,” he says, all congeniality and smiles and soft eyes, and Ajay looks at the drink he’s offered and doesn’t take it.

“I’m going back to America,” he responds. “I’m going back home.”

The can drops. It narrowly misses hitting Ajay on the foot. Sabal sits down hard on the desk he rounded to greet Ajay, opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

“This is your home,” he insists. “Your father – ”

“Is dead.” _My mother killed him, because he killed my sister_. Ajay doesn’t say that out loud. Partly because he can’t; partly because he knows it won’t make a difference. “Mohan is dead, and he’s not coming back, and I’m not going to become him just because you want me to.” The words are harsh, but his voice is comparatively gentle. He’s not angry. Sabal isn’t the first person who’s been in love with the idea of what Ajay could be, but never will – there were others, in America. “All I’ve done here is murder people and disappoint you. Me leaving will stop that.”

“You are important, Ajay,” Sabal insists, lurching forward. “We’ve done – _you’ve_ done so much for this country – ” _Not for the country, asshole. For you. It was all for you._ “Why? Has someone mistreated you?”

Ajay can’t keep himself from letting out a small whiff of laughter at that, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “Define mistreated.” That’s not the correct response. “No, you’re right. I’ve done a lot for Kyrat. It’s about time I did something for me.”

“ _Brother_ ,” Sabal rasps, and to look in his eyes is to see the world ending. “I don’t understand. You’ve given no indication of being dissatisfied here. Does it not fulfill you to continue your father’s work? To see the Kyrat of his dreams become a reality?”

The son of Mohan suppresses a cringe. Sabal is a force of nature, especially when he is like this. Ajay has always found it difficult to stand up to kindness.

“You don’t need me for that,” he explains quietly, trying to extricate himself from the conversation before it’s too late – before the other man says something that will crumble his already tenuous resolve. “It’s already done. Kyrat is free. With you as its leader, I can’t imagine a reason for you to keep me around.” He can, but it has nothing to do with reviving the country, so he doesn’t mention it.

There is a long pause; then Sabal says, “ _I_ need you, brother.” It’s a phrase that Ajay translates as the _Kyrat needs you_ that it usually means, and dismisses out of hand until the regent takes a step forward and reaches out to lay the tips of his fingers on the younger man's cheek. “Is that not reason enough?”

Ajay closes his eyes, taking in the touch on his face, the faint sound of Sabal’s breathing, the notable absence of distant gunfire. For a moment – just for a moment – he lets himself believe that the other man is telling the truth. That he remembers what happened at Ratu Gadhi, that he doesn’t see someone else every time he looks at Ajay.

The moment passes, and Ajay opens his eyes just in time to see Sabal’s mouth move with the words he doesn’t want to hear.

“If you won’t stay for me, then think of your legacy. Standing by my side, seeing this through, watching Kyrat rise from the ashes – it’s what Mohan would have wanted.”

There’s a sharp sound of leather on skin, and it takes Ajay a second to realize that he’s slapped Sabal’s fingers away from his face with his own gloved hand.

“Am I the one you need?” he snaps, the words tumbling out before the thought is even fully formulated. “Or is it my father?”

It’s telling that Sabal does not have a response. He just stares at Ajay, a muscle twitching in his jaw while looking confused and injured. After a moment, he says, “Ajay,” and it’s in the same patronizing tone of voice that he always has when it comes to Mohan. _You need to learn what drove him – what drives us._ “Don’t act like this. Kyrat is still in a tenuous state. It needs strong leadership to bring it to heel – ” He stops, aware perhaps that his words smack strongly of Pagan Min. “I need you by my side, brother. Help me lead the people. They look up to you.”

Ajay’s heart throbs, like there’s a fist clenched around it trying to keep it from beating.

“Thanks for the credit,” he says, his voice tight like the feeling in his chest. Sabal’s gaze softens, his lips spread into a smile, and Ajay drops the killing blow. “But you don’t need two heads.”

Sabal doesn’t stop him as he turns to leave, and he doesn’t call out as the door swings shut. Ajay lays a hand on the weathered red wood – waiting, hoping, knowing better than to do either. An eagle cries out overhead, and he looks up on instinct to see if it’s swooping in for the attack. He can’t even see it from where he is, but he can see that the sun is starting to rise, creeping over the Kyrati hills and glinting off the dew-spattered cars and rooftops of the outpost.

 _Men only really love you in hindsight_ , Pagan had said. _When too much distance has built up_.

 __Ajay doesn’t know if the miles between Kyrat and California will be enough, but there’s only one way to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a kudos and/or a comment if you enjoyed <3


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